Ultimatums and Regrets
by basswall2
Summary: Alfred regrets giving Bruce an ultimatum. But he can't take it back unless he can first save his master's life. "I have set his broken bones, stitched his cuts, and administered antidotes to counteract deadly poisons. I would trade my life for his. That, sir, is why I am here." Note: TDKR Spoilers Rated T for some mild swearing
1. Chapter 1

_ALERT! TDKR SPOILERS! DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE MOVIE!_

_This story is just my take on what might have happened in TDKR if Alfred had been able to nurse Bruce Wayne back to health when he was in prison, rather than a strange doctor doing it. I kind of wish Alfred had a larger part in the last movie, because I love his character._

_Everything I know about Batman comes from the most recent three movies, and this is the first Dark Knight fic I've ever written, so please be patient with any inaccuracies._

_Disclaimer: I in no way own Batman or any associated characters._

Alfred sat as straight as he could amidst the nearly constant bumping up and down of the vehicle in which he was sitting. A person had to maintain his dignity as best he could, after all, even in the midst of the most trying circumstances. And these circumstances were trying to say the least. After all, he was sitting with a burlap sack pulled over his head and his hands had been lashed behind his back. Exactly how long it had been was difficult to estimate, and how far they had traveled was impossible to guess. What he knew was that he was on an uncomfortable journey with unpleasant company.

About a day ago, by his reckoning, Alfred had been sitting in his small rented cottage drinking a cup of Darjeeling tea. Or, rather, he was sitting there, lost in thought and regret while his cup of tea sat rapidly cooling. It had been days since he had seen his former ward, and he was tormented by the thought that he had been wrong to leave Bruce alone, in his empty mansion with the weight of Gotham City sitting on his shoulders.

The butler's heart had been in the right place. He had been desperate to try and save Bruce from the path he had chosen, and in his desperation had given his master an ultimatum. He should have known it wouldn't work. And now he was wondering if, when Bruce had made the choice they both knew he would make, Alfred should have backed down on his threat to quit. Or at least come back after a day or two and asked to be re-employed.

After all, leaving Bruce to fend for himself would hardly help to ensure his safety. On the contrary, it could quite possibly mean his undoing. When Batman inevitably suffered injuries in the course of protecting the city, no one would be there to stitch him up or provide an antidote, or god forbid, make the difficult decision to take Bruce Wayne to the emergency room when he sustained damage beyond what his butler was able to repair.

And no one would be there to make sure that Bruce ate properly or that he would even have food in the house. And Alfred always inspected the Batsuit after Bruce came back from fighting crime, to make sure any damages were noted and repaired. What if he went up against an adversary on an empty stomach with a compromised suit and…

Alfred's unhappy reverie had been interrupted by the sound of someone crashing through the front door. He flew to his feet, inadvertently knocking his cup of cold tea over in the process. A second later, a group of men burst into the room, followed by the man with the black face mask, the man known as Bane.

Some sort of conversation had preceded Alfred being knocked unconscious by a blow to the head, but the details were fuzzy. From what little he could remember, Bane had made it clear that he knew the Batman's true identity, and he was interested in Alfred because of their connection. The older man had come to a quick conclusion that Bane wanted to hold him hostage, to use him as bait in order to trap Bruce.

He had then come to an equally fast decision, that he could not let that happen. He would willingly die before he would let Bruce come to harm trying to protect him. He had said as much, and the next thing he knew he awoke in his current predicament. Actually, he was pretty sure he had been on a plane when he first regained consciousness, and now his was definitely in some sort of land vehicle, but other than that, not much about his situation had changed.

His attempts at getting any response from his captors were completely wasted effort. Despite his questions and threats, he received not so much as a grunt in reply. So he finally gave up, and spent the long, uncomfortable hours trying to puzzle out his situation, mostly just coming up with unanswered questions. Were they planning to use him as bait as he suspected? He could come to no other conclusion. But if they were, why were they taking him so far away? They had traveled for hours by air and had now been journeying by land for at least two more. Were they trying to lure Bruce away from Gotham so they could wreak whatever havoc they had planned without his interference? None of it made sense. He could only hope that his former master would not fall into whatever trap they had planned. He could simply not bear it if Bruce came to harm because of him.

The vehicle that was transporting Alfred and his captors came to an abrupt stop, and he could hear doors slamming and voices. As frightened as he was about what was to come, he was hopeful that they had finally reached their destination. Anything would be better than all of this sitting and waiting and driving himself mad with worry.

Though he still had the bag over his head, Alfred was suddenly aware of light filtering in through the loose weave of the fabric. He was suddenly grasped under the arms and pulled roughly from the vehicle that had been his prison for the last several hours. His captors half dragged, half led him a few hundred feet over what felt like sandy ground, and then unceremoniously dropped him into the dirt. He felt a hand at the back of his head and then suddenly the sack was pulled away and his eyes immediately closed to block out the harsh light that came from a mid-day sun.

When he was able to open them again, he realized he was sitting in what appeared to be a desert, surrounded by Bane and 3 of his men. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak. When he did, he was proud of how confident his voice sounded, though it was hoarse and cracked from going hours without water. "Whatever trap you think you are going to use me to lure Master Wayne into, I assure you he is much too intelligent to fall for it."

Bane looked closely at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. "So that is what you think is going on here? That we plan to use you as bait to capture the Batman?" His digitized but unexpectedly smooth and cultured voice was mocking. "I am sorry to say that your faith in him is sadly misguided. We don't need to use you as bait. We already captured the Bat several days ago."

Alfred stared at this psychopath, wishing he could see his whole face. Maybe then he could better determine if he was telling the truth. When he spoke, he voice sounded less confident than before. "You're lying."

The huge masked man chuckled again. "I'm not going to waste time trying to convince you. You will see for yourself soon enough. But I am going to tell you why you are here." He paused for a moment to bark an order to one of his men, who quickly responded by providing a bottle of water to the weary butler. Another of Bane's thugs untied Alfred's wrists.

Alfred looked at the water with disdain. His throat burned, and he longed to take a drink, but he was loathe to accept anything from his kidnappers.

Seeing his reticence, Bane spoke again, "Perhaps when I tell you why you are here, you will be more willing to take care of yourself. If not for your own sake, then for your master's." Getting no response from Alfred, the sophisticated digitized voice continued. "As I said before, I captured the Batman several days ago. He was injured quite severely during our altercation, more severely than I had intended, in fact." Bane shook his head. "He would not give up, even after he could clearly see he was outmatched."

"Where is Master Wayne?" Alfred demanded. He tried to get to his feet, but was held down by the man behind him.

Bane's voice was cold. "I suggest you let me finish without further interruption."

The butler held his tongue, his mind reeling. Where was Bruce? What had they done to him?

"I am holding him prisoner," the masked giant continued, "and I have plans for him. I need him to stay alive long enough to see the destruction that will be brought down upon Gotham City. I cannot have him die, but I am concerned that is exactly what will happen given the severity of his injuries." Bane stooped slightly and looked directly into the older man's eyes to be sure he had his full attention. "Your job is to keep him alive. The prisoner I put in charge of caring for him is a doctor, but he is not confident he will be able to do so. You, on the other hand have a personal reason to keep him alive. I have no doubt you will do everything in your power to ensure that he does not die."

Alfred nodded numbly. His head was reeling with the information he had just received. He was silent and still for a moment, as he tried to push down his churning emotions. He picked up the bottle of water and slowly drank its contents, more to gain time to compose himself than anything else. When he was done, he neatly put the lid back on the bottle and handed it to one of the men. Then he stood up carefully and looked Bane straight in the eye. "Take me to him."

_There will be more to follow shortly, as the second chapter is almost finished. BUT, I'm hoping someone can confirm for me that name of the doctor that took care (if you can call it that) of Bruce in the prison is Dr. Patel. I looked it up on IMDb, but I'm not totally sure he was the right guy. Thanks for anyone who can help with this, and reviews are greatly appreciated!_


	2. Chapter 2

Whatever Alfred had imagined the prison that held Master Wayne would look like, he certainly had not anticipated the hell on earth in which he found himself. Bane and his men had deposited Alfred down into the hole that composed the entrance to the prison, and then left without another word.

The butler found himself surrounded by filthy men with gaunt faces and lifeless eyes. They watched him with vague curiosity, but kept their distance. Alfred suspected that they had been warned not to cause the newcomer any trouble. He peered into the massive prison, which got progressively darker as the distance from the sunlit opening increased, and wondered how long it would take him to find Master Wayne, if he was indeed here.

He noticed a wizened old man who appeared to be older than himself, who was looking intently at him. It was doubtful that any of the inmates spoke English, but he decided to give it a try. "Does anyone know if there is a man named Bruce Wayne here?" He addressed the crowd in general, but he was really speaking to the old man. After staring at him for a moment more, the old man grunted and then gestured for Alfred to follow him.

Alfred's elderly guide led him up a flight of metal stairs to a walkway that provided access to the cells on the upper level. They passed four cells, all empty at the moment, with their doors wide open. At the fifth cell, the old man stopped, said something in an unknown tongue, and gestured inside. This cell's door was shut, and in the dim light he could just make out the figure of a man lying on a metal cot.

Alfred turned to thank his guide, but the old man had already shuffled away. Now standing alone in front of the cell, he steeled himself to enter. He took a deep breath and pulled on the door, which swung open easily with a loud creak.

"Master Wayne?" he asked tentatively. He took several cautious steps toward the cot and what he saw there nearly took his breath away. It was indeed his master lying silent and still on the crude bed. His face was bruised and bloodied, and the large lump on his cheek hinted at a broken bone. He was naked from the waste up, and his chest revealed countless contusions and abrasions. To make matters worse, the sheen of sweat that covered Bruce's face and chest and the high color on his cheeks hinted at a fever.

Up until that moment, Alfred had done an admirable job of keeping his emotions at bay, but now tears sprang to his eyes. Through the years, the butler had seen an injured Batman enter the bat cave countless times. Alfred was always the only witness as Gotham's hero would shed his Dark Knight exterior to become human again, with a mortal body that had once again undergone brutal punishment.

Alfred never got used to it, though he did get better at being detached and business-like until his ward's wounds were attended to. He had even seen Bruce looking almost this bad; unconscious, beaten, and bloody with unknown internal injuries that Alfred was unable to attend to himself. But the difference was- Alfred had _been there_. He had gotten Bruce out of the bat suit, somehow manhandled him back up into the mansion, made the call, and ridden with him in the ambulance. He was there when Bruce had awakened after surgery, confused, and frightened, and in pain. It was Alfred's face and voice that had calmed him down, brought him back to reality, made him feel safe.

This time, whose voice had he heard? Whose face had he seen when he finally battled his way back to consciousness through the haze of pain? Bane's? The thought made Alfred nearly sick with rage. And guilt. This was his fault. If he hadn't left Master Wayne alone, things might have been different.

Alfred was jolted from his descent into remorse and anger by the soft sound of someone clearing his throat. He turned around quickly, and saw that he and Master Wayne were no longer alone in the cell. A short, middle-aged man was standing there, looking at him curiously. Alfred quickly wiped the tears from his eyes and stepped back, unsure what to say.

The other man spoke first. "You must be the man Bane spoke of. The one who will help this prisoner stay alive long enough for Bane to kill him." He spoke matter-of-factly, and without malice, as a man who is no longer surprised by suffering. He had an accent that Alfred couldn't place, but he spoke excellent English.

Alfred just stared at him for a long moment until somewhere inside, the part of him that was the genteel, refined butler recovered enough to realize that he needed to introduce himself. "Yes, Bane brought me here to… take care of him. My name is Alfred Pennyworth. Do you mind if I ask your name?"

"In another life, I was known as Dr. Pavel. And I suppose you may call me that now, since I have been given the task of keeping your friend alive." He walked over to Bruce's prone form and lifted his hand, placed two fingers on his wrist and stood silently for a moment, checking his pulse. When he was finished, he shook his head. "Not good."

"What are his injuries?" Alfred asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"Well besides the obvious, he has several broken ribs, and a fractured wrist. He has had a considerable amount of blood in his urine, which indicates some kidney damage. He started running a fever yesterday evening. And from what I can tell, he is unable to move his lower extremities. He definitely has vertebrae out of place, and his back may be broken, but only time will tell. " Once again the doctor spoke in an emotionless tone that indicated that trivial concerns like a bed-side manner had long ago ceased to matter. "Of course, those are just the injuries that I was able to diagnose without any sort of medical equipment."

Alfred felt as though the ground had been pulled out from underneath him. He sat down hard next to Bruce's cot and waited for the cell to stop spinning. He allowed himself just a moment to feel the panic and terror that came from knowing that he and this doctor might very well fail in their mission to keep Master Wayne alive. Then he pulled himself together and stood up. He leaned over the prone figure on the bed, and put his hand on Bruce's sweaty forehead, resisting the urge to jerk it away when he felt the heat radiating from it. "My god, what have they done to you?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Patel watched this touching display impatiently. He wasn't averse to having assistance in caring for this man. After all, Bane had done everything but kill Bruce Wayne, and then expected the doctor to somehow work a miracle and keep him alive in deplorable conditions with only a few limited medications and no equipment. He could use all the help he could get. But there was no room in a place like this to let emotions get in the way of doing what needed to be done, and this newcomer would be more of a hindrance than a help if he was going to let his feelings rule his actions.

"So, are you a doctor, then?" Dr. Patel asked. He wondered if this man was perhaps Bruce Wayne's personal physician. Bane had only told him he would be sending someone to make sure Patel did everything possible to keep the injured man alive. Other than that he had no idea who this Alfred Pennyworth was.

Alfred turned to look at him. "No," he answered. "I'm a butler."

Dr. Patel snorted derisively, and said, almost to himself, "A butler? Why the hell would Bane send me a butler? What good is that going to do me?" He shook his head in disgust. "Well, don't worry. I'll take care of the medical end of things. But if the patient has a sudden urge for tea and crumpets, I'll be sure to let you know."

In response, Alfred Pennyworth straightened himself to his full height and smoothed his rumpled clothes. "I have taken care of Master Wayne since he was born. I have set his broken bones, stitched his cuts, and administered antidotes to counteract deadly poisons." His voice was stern. "And though I may not be a doctor, I have saved his life on more than one occasion. You may have the medical expertise to do all those things and more, but you don't give a damn whether he lives or dies. _I_ would trade my life for his. That, _sir_, is why I am here."

Thanks for reading! I would love some reviews to let me know what you think, since this is my first Batman fic. I'm trying to decide how much further I want to go with this, if I should end it here or continue it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much for all the encouraging reviews! Given how excellent TDKR was, I'm not writing this to try to fix a flaw, I'm just indulging my imagination a little. Thanks for humoring me and reading along!_

Until Alfred said the words, he wasn't even sure he actually knew himself why he had been abducted and brought to this place. He had been disoriented by the journey and then overwhelmed by the emotions he had experienced at first laying eyes on Master Wayne. But now, upon hearing this strange man condescendingly dismiss him as being useless, his purpose for being here came into razor-sharp focus. His job, as always, was to take care of Bruce at all costs. A madman was pulling the strings, but the situation being what it was, there was nowhere else Alfred would rather be.

It seemed that Alfred's words had also clarified things for Dr. Pavel. He looked at the butler with a begrudging respect. "Well, then," he said with a shrug. "Let's see what we can do for him."

Before the butler could respond, he was frozen in his tracks by the sound of his name. "Alfred." The voice that came from the cot sounded more like Batman's than Bruce's. Low and gravelly, but very weak.

"Master Wayne!" Alfred was at his side in a second.

Bruce's eyes were bright with fever and his breath rattled painfully in his chest. "I'm dreaming," he whispered.

"No, Master Wayne. I'm really here." Alfred gently took the younger man's hand and gripped it tightly, reassuring him that he was indeed made of flesh and blood and not merely a fragment of a dream.

"I don't… I can't… walk, Alfred," Bruce said, his voice taking on an edge of panic. "Why can't I walk?"

"Shhh… you're too sick to walk right now," Alfred answered, his voice soothing. "But I'm going to fix you up, just like always. Can you tell me what hurts?"

The injured man didn't seem to have heard the question. His eyes were still open, but he was looking through Alfred rather than at him. He began to make a low moaning sound in the back of his throat with each labored breath.

"Master Wayne?"

"I can't fight him," Bruce ground out between painful breaths. "I tried. He's going to kill everyone… destroy the city."

"Master Wayne, look at me," the older man commanded.

But Bruce was lost in a fever-induced nightmare. "He killed Rachel. And my parents. I tried to stop him. I couldn't stop him!"

The panic was over-taking him and Alfred had to stop it. "Master Wayne…Bruce!" He spoke his name loudly and put his hands on either side of his head and forced the younger man to look at him.

Bruce's eyes finally focused on his old friend and he was free, for the moment, from the terrifying mix of old and new nightmares. "Alfred?" he said, as if seeing him for the first time.

The butler smiled. "Yes, Master Wayne. I'm here.

"I don't feel so great."

"Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"My head hurts. And so does my arm. And it hurts when I breathe." Bruce paused for a moment, and seemed to lose his train of thought. "My back is killing me…" he murmured finally. "And I'm so tired…" His eyes closed.

"You just rest now, Master Wayne," Alfred said. But Bruce was too far gone to hear him.

The doctor had already decided that their first priority needed to be bringing Bruce's fever down, and he was suddenly grateful that he now had a willing assistant. Unfortunately, Bane had been less than generous with the first aid supplies he had given Patel to work with, so he had to be very careful with how he used them.

Among the medicines Bane had provided were a bottle of twenty-four ibuprofen, a broad-spectrum antibiotic, and a muscle relaxer. That was it. He had also left some alcohol swabs and band-aids, the latter of which might have been a sick joke, given the severity of Bruce's injuries.

Though he had already started Bruce on the antibiotic as a precautionary measure, Dr. Patel had hoped to save the majority of the ibuprofen for later. Assuming the unfortunate Mr. Wayne managed to survive long enough to learn to walk again, the drug would be needed for its anti-inflammatory properties to ease the swelling along his spinal cord.

A few hours before Alfred had made his entrance, Patel had already given Bruce two ibuprofen to wash down with the dirty water that the inmates were forced to drink. The younger man had promptly vomited the pills and the water back up. Two ibuprofen wasted. He decided to try a different tactic and instead mashed two more pills into the gruel they were given for lunch. He knew it had to taste awful. It tasted awful anyway, and the bitter flavor of medicine couldn't have made it any better. But somehow he had gotten Bruce to swallow the medicated gruel and keep it down.

His fever had still not broken though, and Dr. Patel knew he would have to give him two more pills to try and bring it down. In the meantime, he gave Alfred the task of keeping cool wash-cloths on the young man's forehead and neck. The water he had available might taste awful, but at least it was cold, courtesy of the chilliness that came with being underground.

The evening meal was a bowl of watery soup, with sparse chunks of mystery meat interspersed sparingly with beans so few in number it was possible to count them all at a glance. It was designed to keep a man alive but not full; just enough to stave off starvation, but never enough to bring contentment. However, the warm broth was the best hope the two men had of dissolving the pills that would begin Bruce Wayne's healing.

It was here that Alfred's usefulness became truly apparent to Dr. Patel. No one could say that the doctor was a patient man. Even back in the days when he was free and running his own practice, his patients would sometimes grumble to the nurses that Patel was short with them, often to the point of being downright rude.

He had no sympathy for people who caused their own illnesses or injuries, nor did he coddle those who did not take the necessary steps to get well. And at times, his patients' culpability was merely perceived by him, when their illnesses were actually completely out of their control. This flaw in his character was indirectly responsible for him ending up in prison- but that is a different story.

Patel had carefully dissolved one of the ibuprofen in a small cup of broth, and was attempting to get Bruce to swallow it. The semi-conscious man on the cot had no idea what was being forced down his throat, and choked on it. Most of it dribbled back down his chin. The second attempt was no better. Bruce was slowly becoming more conscious but was still confused. This time, when the doctor brought the spoon to his lips, he pushed it away with a wide sweep of his arm, knocking the whole cup of broth out of Patel's hand. Another ibuprofen wasted.

The doctor swore and threw the spoon on the ground next to the cup. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "You try," he commanded tersely, looking at Alfred. Then he stalked out of the cell.

Alfred quickly added two pills to his own cup of soup and slowly stirred it as he sat next to the cot. "Master Wayne," he said loudly in a cheerful tone, "dinner is now being served in the main dining hall."

Bruce opened his eyes and looked at him in confusion. "Dinner?"

"Yes, Master Wayne. And the first course is your favorite: French onion soup!"

Alfred knew this sorry concoction of gristle and beans in broth would taste nothing like his homemade French onion soup, but he hoped Bruce wouldn't notice under the circumstances. He held the spoon carefully and supported the younger man's head. Bruce swallowed the spoonful and made a face, but obediently opened again and again until the broth was gone. Then he lay his head back down wearily and closed his eyes. Alfred thought the younger man was sleeping until he suddenly spoke again.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"Please don't make that soup again."

The butler chuckled in spite of himself. "Alright, Master Wayne. I won't."

When Patel walked back in an hour later, his patient was sleeping soundly, and one hand on his forehead told the doctor everything he needed to know. Bruce Wayne's fever had broken. His healing had begun.

_Please R&R! You are really inspiring me to keep this story going. Please let me know what you think of this last chapter. I almost feel like I got a little too bogged down in the details in this chapter, so the next one will cover more than one day._


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred had, of course, never been in prison until now. But from what he knew of prisons, this particular place was nothing like any other he had heard of. For one thing, there were no guards. The only hint that there was someone out in the free world that knew the prison existed, was the food that was tossed down into the entrance every couple of days. The lack of guards meant that the inmates ruled themselves, by a hierarchy that was established through fights and intimidation. This hierarchy shifted periodically, as the occasional newcomer jockeyed for position or a prisoner's death left an opening in the ranks that needed to be filled.

Despite this anarchy, the inmates had actually arranged themselves into a fairly stable, if often brutal, society. The first time Alfred witnessed food being dropped into the hole, he had braced himself for a violent free-for-all with starving men grasping and clawing for a scrap of sustenance. What he saw was quite different. Two men came up and collected the food and took it back to the inmates who did the cooking for the whole prison. Some order, Alfred supposed, came out of necessity.

The other thing that made this place stand out from other prisons was the large, unguarded entrance that beckoned enticingly to the prisoners every minute of their incarceration. The opening which provided the tantalizing glimpse of blue sky and sunlight was like a siren song that lured the more daring captives to try and break free.

And try they did. Dr. Patel told Alfred grimly that only one prisoner had ever made it, but that didn't stop others from succumbing to the urge to risk their lives to be free. There was usually one attempt every week or so. The end result was inevitably the same: growing excitement among the prison's population as the brave (or stupid) inmate was fitted with a safety rope and began the climb. Chanting and cheering as the prisoner climbed higher. Maybe just maybe, this one would make it. And then, always the jump, the miss, the sound of the rope pulling taught and a human body smacking brutally off of the stone wall. The unconscious form would be lowered to the ground and the now subdued crowd would walk silently away with their heads bowed. This was the world that Master Wayne had been thrown into, and now it was Alfred's home as well.

In the days that passed since Bruce's fever had first broken, he began to make a painstakingly slow recovery. The antibiotics kicked in and the fever did not come back. He still could not move his legs, but he was awake more of the time, and fully aware of what was going on around him. This made it easier to give the injured man food, water, and medicine, but there were times when Alfred wished Master Wayne could slip back into unconsciousness. Because, though he handled it admirably, Bruce was in pain. All the time. Extreme pain that made it difficult for him to get real sleep and caused him to whimper when he thought no one could hear him.

But Alfred heard him. The butler was tireless in his care of his master and friend. When Bruce lay awake in the middle of the night in too much agony to sleep, Alfred was beside him, trying to keep his mind off the pain.

On one night in particular, Alfred was awakened by a low moaning sound coming from the cot. He tiptoed over to his friend who had his eyes shut tight and a sheen of sweat covering his face.

"Master Wayne, what can I do to make you more comfortable?" He tried to make it sound like a casual question, but it came out sounding more like pleading.

Alfred had only felt this helpless one other time- the night he picked a stricken young Bruce up from the police station after his parents had been brutally murdered. That night, and in the weeks that followed, Alfred had felt completely powerless to help Bruce cope with the loss of his parents. There was nothing that could be said or done to make such a deep pain go away. Only time could ease that agony, and eventually it had, although he knew the ache from a loss that profound would never heal completely. Alfred told himself that Bruce's physical pain too, would take time to heal. But would there be enough time?

The younger man opened his eyes at the sound of his friend's voice. "Alfred… I didn't want to wake you up." He gripped the side of the cot with his good hand and tried to control his breathing.

"You didn't, Master Wayne," the butler lied smoothly. "I was unable to sleep." Keeping his voice low he asked again, "Please tell me what I can do to help you."

Bruce shook his head grimly. "Got any morphine?" he asked with a humorless laugh. The butler gave a small smile and shook his head.

"It just hurts, Alfred. There's nothing you can do."

In response, Alfred went and picked up the threadbare blanket he had been given to sleep on. He rolled it up and brought it over to the cot.

"Alfred, I'm not taking your blanket," Bruce protested weakly through teeth clenched in pain.

Ignoring the younger man's objections, Alfred gently lifted Bruce's lifeless legs and carefully maneuvered the blanket so it was underneath the area of his back where the doctor had indicated the vertebrae had been damaged. Alfred hoped this would take some of the pressure off of the injury. He knew his idea had worked when Bruce suddenly stopped protesting and took a deep breath.

"Well, maybe I'll just use it for a little while," he conceded wearily, closing his eyes. Alfred was still standing at his side a few minutes later when a jolt of pain, this time from his wrist, caused him to wake up from his light sleep with a gasp.

"Master Wayne?"

"Just a dream," Bruce answered, adjusting his injured arm so that the pain receded to a dull throb. They sat in silence for a moment when Alfred suddenly spoke, quietly so as not to disturb the other inmates.

"Master Wayne, I was thinking this afternoon as we were eating our uh…" the butler paused, clearing his throat delicately.

"Rat?" the younger man provided helpfully, sounding for a moment like his old self.

"Let's hope that isn't what it was," Alfred answered with a shudder. "Anyway, there is only one thing I've ever tasted that was worse than the lunch we had today. And it's something you had the pleasure of eating too. Any guesses?"

"The lunch we had yesterday?" Bruce quipped with a chuckle. He knew Alfred was trying to distract him, and it was actually working.

Alfred gave a small laugh too, and shook his head. "No, we dined on the particular dish I'm thinking of in the Great Hall of Wayne Manor. It was a long time ago, but I will never forget…"

"My mother's Christmas goose!" Bruce exclaimed softly with a smile.

"Indeed!" Alfred whispered enthusiastically. "Never has something made with so much love tasted so awful."

It hurt to laugh, but Bruce couldn't help it. He could still picture his mother proudly bringing out the goose she had insisted on cooking herself. She had wanted it to be a surprise for Alfred. Not only would he not have to cook on the holiday, he would be able to dine on a traditional British Christmas dinner. The only problem was, she wasn't much of a cook to begin with, and she had never tried preparing something as involved as a goose. The finished product was burned on the outside, frozen on the inside, and soaked in enough cooking sherry to knock a grown man off his feet.

Bruce's father had looked at the bird askance as his wife set it on the table, knowing it probably wasn't supposed to be that… black on the outside. Alfred, who had eaten quite a fair number of Christmas geese over the years, gulped discreetly and steeled himself. He knew from looking at it that it was not going to be fit for human consumption, but he was not about to hurt the feelings of his kind-hearted mistress who had slaved in the kitchen for hours to make him this special treat. Bruce, who was 10 at the time and had never eaten goose, didn't know enough to realize it looked odd, and he dug in with gusto. At the same time, Alfred took a delicate bite and washed it down with water. Bruce remembered the taste to this day, burnt flavors mingling with raw meat all topped off with the strange overpowering taste of sherry. He had made a face and choked on the huge bite in his mouth, grabbing his water glass to wash it all down. When Mrs. Wayne took a bite of it herself to see what was wrong, she gagged and spit it into her napkin.

She'd been on the verge of tears over her failure of a goose, when Mr. Wayne had suddenly started laughing. It was contagious, and the other two Waynes suddenly saw the humor and began giggling as well. When they were finished cracking up, they all looked at Alfred and realized that he was sitting there, still calmly eating tiny bites of the offensive bird. This had caused another round of laughter as Mrs. Wayne gasped between giggles, "For goodness sake, Alfred. You don't have to eat it!"

To which Alfred had replied, "Nonsense, Madam. This is the best goose I've eaten in years."

"It was the only goose I'd eaten in years," Alfred said with a chuckle when they were done reminiscing. "But never was a goose roasted with better intentions by a woman with a kinder heart."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, each man lost in his own thoughts.

"You were always part of the family, Alfred," Bruce said finally, "even before you were all the family I had left. Thanks for looking after me."

"I was wrong to leave, Master Wayne," Alfred said regretfully. It was what he had been waiting to say almost from the moment he first left Wayne Manor. He laid a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I am truly sorry."

"I understand why you did it," Bruce answered, his voice heavy with fatigue. "And you're here now, taking care of me, again."

"I always will, Master Wayne. For as long as I am able."

The only response Alfred got was a soft snore, as Bruce fell into a deep and restful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_Many apologies for taking so long to get this chapter up. I could not decide how I wanted Alfred to react to the doctor's plan for getting Bruce's vertebra back into place, so I rewrote it twice. Hopefully I managed to keep Alfred somewhat in character._

_Thank you so much for all of your reviews. You are all keeping me inspired. For those that are worried about how Alfred is going to get out (somehow I doubt even Bruce Wayne could make that jump with his butler on his back) I actually have that worked out, but you'll have to wait and see! Don't worry, I promise not to leave him stuck in the Pit. Please let me know what you think of this chapter._

"I know you don't like it, but there aren't any other options. If there was anything else I could do I swear I would do it." Dr. Patel was speaking as convincingly as he could in a whisper.

"Somehow I doubt this procedure would be supported by the Hippocratic oath. You are telling me that hitting a man with a severe spinal injury in the back is doing no harm?" Alfred tried to keep his voice down, but it was difficult given his state of heightened emotion.

The two men were attempting to speak softly to avoid waking Bruce, who was sleeping on the cot. According to the doctor, it might be the last good sleep the injured man would get in a while, and he didn't want to wake him prematurely.

Patel had known for a while now that he was going to have to take drastic measures if Bruce would ever have a hope of walking again. He didn't know exactly what Bane's plans were for his patient, but he was starting to feel a certain responsibility for giving Bruce Wayne every possible chance at surviving. And he knew there would be no survival for this man in or out of prison unless he could defend himself.

Now all he had to do was convince Bruce's tireless caretaker that this was the only way. He had waited to tell Alfred what he was planning until he thought Bruce was healthy enough for the procedure. And against all odds, he had actually healed remarkably well. The only remaining obstacle was the biggest one: the vertebra that was out of place. In a hospital, surgery followed by intense physical therapy would be the best course, but here in this place of captivity he did not enjoy such options. Using a rope as a crude traction device combined by a well placed blow to the misplaced vertebra might just do the trick.

Alfred was not convinced, but he was out of his element. This particular injury was far beyond anything the butler had handled himself and admittedly he had no medical expertise in the delicate area of the spine. Even as he argued against the risky procedure, he was not sure he wasn't in the wrong.

The animated discussion was interrupted when the injured man suddenly reminded the two men of his presence by weighing in on his own fate. "Let him do it, Alfred," came the voice from the cot. Both men turned in surprise to the patient they had thought was sleeping. Bruce smiled weakly at his old friend. "It doesn't sound fun, but I don't have many options."

"Master Wayne…" Alfred began, unsure what to say. He wanted to talk Bruce out of going along with this risky procedure, but as the younger man had pointed out, what other options were there? "If the doctor is unsuccessful, you might never walk again."

"If we do nothing, he will not walk again," Dr. Patel pointed out. "And when Bane returns he will be helpless to defend himself."

"Alfred, I know you're worried, but this is my decision. I have to let him do this." There was a finality in Bruce's voice that told the butler that the discussion was over.

Thirty minutes later, the doctor had his medical equipment (a rope in layman's terms) ready. He had looped the rope around a rafter and underneath Bruce's arms. It was a crude set-up, but hopefully it would be effective in taking the pressure off of Bruce's back, elongating his spinal cord and creating some space between the vertebrae. Once Patel hoisted the injured man off of the cot, he would have to stay that way until he was able to bear his own weight on his legs, a piece of information he had not yet shared with his patient or Alfred. One less thing for the older man to protest.

Alfred was hovering anxiously over his friend, unaware of the effect he was having on Master Wayne. The doctor, however, could see that the butler's anxiety was spreading to Bruce. The younger man was not used to seeing his old friend this nervous. Alfred was usually a study in calm control, even in dire situations. Calm breeds calm, and when Bruce had on more than one occasion suffered injuries serious enough to end his life, the panic he felt disappeared when Alfred took over. That was the difference, though none of the three men in the small prison cell could have put it into words at the time. The old butler was a _fixer_. When he was in control, any nervousness was channeled immediately into action. Now he was a by-stander with nothing constructive to do and his anxiety was building.

The doctor made an executive decision. "Alfred, go take a walk. Come back in ten minutes." It was a command, not a request.

The butler opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor stopped him by grabbing his arm and leading him out of the cell. "I know you want to help, but you are only making him nervous. This has to be done, and it isn't going to be pleasant. It will be better if you leave the cell until I'm finished with the procedure."

It was actually tempting to follow the doctor's orders and leave until the worst was over. But he couldn't do it. Master Wayne needed him to see him through this. He took a deep breath and spoke with quiet conviction. "No, doctor. I have to stay. Just give me a moment to collect myself, and I will do what I can to put Master Wayne's mind at ease."

Patel was unconvinced, but Alfred's tone told him that it would be futile to argue any further. He heaved a frustrated sigh and shrugged his shoulders and then turned and reentered the cell, leaving the older man alone in the corridor.

Alfred closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm his frayed nerves. True, this situation was far different than any he and Master Wayne had faced together. The conditions they were living in were abysmal and the medical facilities nonexistent. That being said, Bruce _was_ improving, and at this point his life was no longer in danger. So why was he now experiencing more anxiety than he ever remembered feeling, even when his young ward's life hung in the balance?

The answer came with sudden clarity. If something went wrong today, Bruce might never walk again. The last eight years had seen Master Wayne withdrawn and hopeless, using his knee injury and broken heart as an excuse to hide from the world. Just when Alfred had begun to despair that the younger man would never break free from his self-imposed exile, Bruce has suddenly started to come back to life. He had found a purpose again, and the old butler had renewed hope that maybe, just maybe, Master Wayne would find the happiness that had always eluded him.

And now this. This terrifying prospect that the young man he had raised for the last twenty years would lose his ability to walk, and with it would sink back into the depths of depression, perhaps this time never finding his way back to the land of the living.

Alfred mentally shook himself, refusing to continue down the dark path of worst-case scenarios. He couldn't think this way. He'd never been a pessimist, and he wasn't going to let the fear he felt turn him into one. It wasn't fair to Bruce to give up on him before he even had a chance to fight to make his body whole again. And if the past had shown Alfred anything, it was that if there was a man in the world who could beat odds like this, Bruce Wayne was that man.

When Alfred reentered the cell, it was with a steely resolve to see Bruce walk again, whatever it took. The doctor was getting ready to use the pulley system he had devised to hoist the injured man off his back into an upright position.

"Are you ready?" Patel asked gruffly.

Bruce blew out a breath and involuntarily turned his eyes toward Alfred, looking for some reassurance.

The butler smiled, all traces of doubt now gone from his expression. "Master Wayne, I'm sure you are more than ready to get up off that bed and start learning to walk again."

Confidence breeds confidence. Bruce nodded his head. He was ready.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks again for all the reviews! I hope this chapter is up to par because it was somewhat difficult to write for some reason. To answer a question a few of you had, I'm intending to just take this story to the point where Bruce escapes. In my head, the rest of the story is the same as the movie from that point on. And again, I will be rescuing Alfred from the Pit as well, so don't worry. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!_

When the day finally came that Bruce was able to stand on his own two feet again, no one really expected it. In fact, the whole process had become quite discouraging for the doctor, distressing for Alfred, and endlessly painful Bruce. For the first few weeks there had been very little progress.

For Alfred, seeing Master Wayne in such discomfort day after day was agonizing. When Patel had hoisted the injured man into the air, his screams of agony echoing across the cavernous prison, Alfred's optimism had begun to evaporate. When the screams had barely subsided to whimpers, the doctor had taken aim and delivered a sharp blow to Bruce's back, causing the younger man to lose control once more. Not a man in the prison was unaware that something extremely unpleasant was happening to the inmate in the fourth cell on the left.

From that moment, Alfred did not allow himself to focus on his concerns for Master Wayne's future. He was too preoccupied with what was happening in the present. Dangling from a rope by his arms twenty- four hours a day for days on end would have been nearly unbearable for a man in perfect health, but for the seriously injured Bruce it was nothing short of torture.

Alfred understood the basic function of the rope as explained to him by Dr. Patel. It took all the pressure off Master Wayne's spine, realigned his damaged vertebrae, and would ideally reduce the swelling enough that the nerves and muscle tissue would heal.

All of that sounded great in theory, but the reality of it was something else entirely. Bruce couldn't sleep. He would doze off occasionally for a few moments here and there out of utter exhaustion, but he never got any real rest. The pressure that was taken off his spine was put on his upper arms, which bore all his weight and ached constantly from the strain. And he was reminded continually of the reason he was in that position in the first place as he tried in vain to stand on legs that not only wouldn't hold him up, but wouldn't even move at his command.

The first night had been the worst, although Alfred wasn't sure if Master Wayne had actually gotten any better in the days that followed, or if he had just gotten better at controlling his reaction to the pain. The doctor, who was rapidly becoming one of Alfred's least favorite people, had promptly left Bruce's cell after examining the result of the medical procedure that most of the civilized world would call assault. He had merely grunted in response to the butler's question about whether the procedure had been successful, and then he was gone until the next day.

Alfred knew Bruce well enough to know when he needed distracting conversation, and when he needed to use all his concentration to deal with the pain he was in. This situation was definitely the latter. The older man stayed close, but was quiet as he watched Master Wayne struggle to find some equilibrium in the midst of his misery.

Bruce's soft groans finally subsided and Alfred brought him a cup of water which he drank slowly, willing himself to keep it down.

"You know what I wish I had right now?" the younger man asked when he had finished.

"What?" Alfred could think of about a hundred things he wished he had right now, a hospital being first on the list.

"A bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey."

Alfred smiled. Whiskey had not been one of the things on his list. But now that Bruce had brought it up, he supposed he could add it. "A whole bottle, Master Wayne?"

A ghost of a smile played across the injured man's lips. "Well, I'd share it. Although I know whiskey isn't your drink."

"No, but given the circumstances, I would be happy to have a glass of whiskey with you."

"Given the circumstances, I think I'd need more than a glass."

They both imagined for a moment what whiskey would taste like going down. "Actually, if I had to pick a beverage right now, I would choose a piping hot cup of Earl Gray," Alfred commented.

Bruce gave a laugh that came out more like a whimper. "I would have guessed. You don't need to share that with me. I'll just keep the whiskey." He shifted slightly in his make-shift harness and a jolt of pain shot up his spine taking his breath away.

Alfred looked at him with concern, and suddenly a wave of anger flooded over him. "Master Wayne, when you get out of here and meet Bane again I want you to inflict as much damage on him as you possibly can."

To his surprise, the injured man actually chuckled at the butler's sudden outburst. "Alfred, I promise, when we get out of here, I will make it my mission to do just that."

There was no sleep for either man that night, as the butler transformed seamlessly from silent sympathizer to caregiver to conversational companion as Bruce's needs changed. Though he was unable to be of much practical assistance, the younger man wondered later how he would have survived without his old friend's company.

Days passed, and every morning Bruce would attempt to put weight on his legs, and every morning they would fold under him like a pile of jell-o. Nothing seemed to change. Periodically, Dr. Patel would examine his patient's spine and test his reflexes. Then he would lower the rope that held the injured man aloft, to see if Bruce could stand. Invariably, his legs collapsed under his weight and he would fall onto his hands and knees. The doctor would shake his head, hoist him back up, and leave with an intelligent comment such as, "Not ready yet."

Then one day, they were given a glimpse into the chaos unfolding in Gotham via a television set hanging outside the cell. Alfred had barely noticed the set, which up to then had shown nothing but static, and assumed it was a defunct security monitor. Then the static had been suddenly interrupted by a broadcasted rant by the madman known as Bane. The following day the monitor blinked to life again, this time revealing an up-close look at a riot occurring in front of the Gotham City prison.

Alfred and Bruce hadn't really talked about what was happening in their hometown. The concerns of the present were much too pressing. But Alfred had wondered if the news from home would discourage Master Wayne further. On the contrary, knowing what was happening to the city Bruce loved had the opposite effect- Batman's alter-ego seemed to regain his focus and remember that he was fighting for something much bigger than himself.

Perhaps this driving purpose was partly responsible for the strength and control that began to return to Bruce's legs. Who knows what effect the mind can have on the body? But whatever the reason, one morning, when it was least expected, Bruce suddenly woke from a light doze to feel a strange sensation in his feet. They were tingling.

He had felt almost nothing in his lower half since he had been dropped into this pit, and he noticed the difference immediately. He willed his foot to flex, and for the first time in many weeks, it responded to his brain's command. Slowly and carefully he raised his arms slightly so that his feet lowered to the ground. He was first aware of a tremendous sense of release as his upper arms were relieved of the burden they had been bearing for weeks. A second later he realized that his legs were supporting him. They felt like rubber, but rubber is more substantial than jell-o and they were indeed holding him up.

His shouts of excitement woke Alfred who was taking a well-deserved nap.

"Master Wayne, what's wrong? Are you in pain?"

"Alfred, look- I'm standing. I'm standing!" The younger man was giddy with excitement and laughed out loud. He felt like dancing, but decided not to push his luck.

"Master Wayne," Alfred was choking back tears of joy and relief. "You're standing!"

Their moment of happiness was suddenly interrupted by a burst of static from the TV. Both men immediately turned their attention to it.

The scene that met their eyes replaced their elation with anger as they watched innocent Gotham citizens being sentenced to death by none other than the psychologist-turned-psycho, Dr. Crane. Alfred sighed, his heart heavy with matters beyond his control.

But Bruce Wayne was once again standing on his own two feet. And for the first time since he had awakened in this miserable place, he truly believed that somehow Batman would rise again, and take back his city.

"Watch your back Bane," he said, in Batman's low growl. "I'm coming for you."


End file.
